


The Toughest Demons

by Petrichor_Amber



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hell, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Hell, Protective Castiel, Self-Harm, Suicidal Dean, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:35:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2350250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petrichor_Amber/pseuds/Petrichor_Amber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He wishes his demons were real. He wishes they were manifest creatures he could fight, shoot, exorcise with the stupid Latin bull crap Sammy made him memorize. Just another day at the office. But they're not. They're within him, burned into his soul, and no shooting or fancy words can free him of them."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Caught

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_pen_is_Dead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_pen_is_Dead/gifts).



> This is my first fic, hope you guys like it! I tried to keep it fairly canon, but there are a couple of obvious divergences. If you're new and hate spoilers, you shouldn't read this before Season 5. 
> 
> Disclaimer: This story explores some dark feelings and actions. I don't condone cutting, or any kind of self-harm, or addiction, or suicide. If you feel like this at any point, please talk to a friend, a parent or a professional. I know it's the scariest thing ever, but just talk to somebody you trust and I promise it can get better. If you don't think you have anyone like that then talk to me, I've been there and I can understand. Comment or pm me on tumblr (Petrichoramber) and we'll get you through it, ok?
> 
> Ok, enough heavy talk. Here's my story! (Special thanks to DangerousNotBroken for beta-ing and also convincing me to even post this, and to The_Pen_is_Dead for the excellent feedback and encouragement! They also suggested the epilogue, for which I am very grateful!)

He wishes his demons were real. He wishes they were manifest creatures he could fight, shoot, exorcise with the stupid Latin bull crap Sammy made him memorize. Just another day at the office. But they're not. They're within him, burned into his soul, and no shooting or fancy words can free him of them. Even now, lying beside someone who has explicitly told him how much he cares, it's not real. He lies there awake at night, feeling Cas beside him but knowing that even an angel couldn't save him from his torments, from the special hell he's created for himself. It's been months since Cas first saw him without a Henley on, though only in shadows, and Dean's still afraid he'll notice the marks. Tiny little scars, hidden under time, and hair, and shame, just waiting to be seen and to steal away everything good now that it has finally come together.

He can't decide whether it would be worse for Cas to find out, or for Sam to. After everything he has worked so hard to protect him from, he can't let Sam see this. He can't be weak. He needs to take care of him, be there for him. Protect Sammy. But at the same time, he can't imagine losing Cas. Can't imagine losing the first time he's felt safe in god knows how long. They finally figured this thing out, and it’s been so good. It’s been so godamn good. Trust him to fuck it up, just like he's fucked up every thing worthwhile that's come into his life. There's no way Cas would stay, not if he knew. No way he would ever touch Dean’s skin again after noticing what lay beneath the surface.

He hates living in this constant fear of being found out, but he has no idea how else to process this feelings. He knows he doesn't deserve happiness, doesn't deserve the love of this incredible being sleeping next to him, doesn't deserve to see his brother succeed and do so well for himself. He had tried drinking, and for a while he could black out the pain, but they had noticed: it's hard to hide that many empties. Occasionally he smokes in the impala, while driving down the highway too fast with the windows down, and almost absent-mindedly wonders what it would be like if he missed the next turn. What it would be like to fly in his baby for a precious second, maybe even two or three, before it would all go away, and he wouldn't have to worry anymore. What it would have been like had he never woken up all those years ago, if his dad hadn't been such an arrogant ass. He wouldn't have had to hurt anybody, it wouldn't be his fault. 

He looks at the wild dark hair lying against his chest. Sees the scars that are nearly invisible on the arm wrapped around this remarkable person who think he loves him, and Dean knows that he could never do that to him. Could never put him through that. Yet somehow that doesn't stop his mind from wandering every time he goes driving down a dark road alone, easily going 90 and listening to his old mix tapes. And just for a second, he wonders what it'd be like to actually know, truly know, what people thought about him. To hear what they would say. Would Cas deliver some eulogy out of a movie, his voice cracking as he tried to convey the depth of his love? Would Sammy praise him for constantly sacrificing for him, would he finally see how Dean had put him first their entire lives? Or was he kidding himself? Would Cas be grateful he hadn't gotten in deeper, hadn't become more involved with this messed up train wreck? Would Sam curse him for being selfish for leaving, and for making him face this world on his own? He could never be sure which way it would go, and his fairly solid conviction in the latter always led him to behave, to make the "responsible" choice. He was such a coward that he couldn't even handle the idea of rejection once he wasn't here anymore. It was pitiful.

All these thoughts swirl through his head, and all he can do is graze Cas' shoulder, run his thumb over it and think of how Cas had given up everything for him, how he had touched his shoulder the first time they had met, and how that was the best damn scar on his entire body. How could he compete with that? He was so pathetic, so ... broken. What could such a beautiful creature ever want with him?

Filled with these thoughts swirling in his mind, like dark smoke refusing to dissipate, he eventually drifts into an uneasy sleep.

"Dean?"

"Dean!"

He's being shaken, and finally he blinks with heavy eyelids. Cas is holding his shoulders, squeezing so tight he thinks he’s trying to give him another mark, and leaning over him, staring at him with those familiar eyes, but now they're not his. They are terrifying; there's a madness in them, and a fear, and something Dean can't name, almost wild and panicked, piercing right through him as he tries to wake up.

"You were tossing and turning, then you started groaning. You're sweating. What's wrong?"

Dean doesn't know where to start. "I'm fine," he grumbles, rolling away from Cas and trying to brush this off. Why can’t the dumb bastard just leave well enough alone? Cas puts his hand on his shoulder, and Dean can't help but think of the first time he did that, when he pulled him out of hell so many years ago. If only he could do that now.

Cas spins him back over so they're facing, his mouth set in a grim line. And he announces, with his ludicrously clear enunciation, in an almost accusatory growl: "No. I know you were having a nightmare."

Dean starts trying to scoff but Cas doesn't even let him finish before he interrupts him, his voice the softest Dean's ever heard. He barely hears it. "I wish you would trust me enough to talk about this."

And just like that, every excuse Dean had lined up, every smart-ass comment he has in the barrel disappears. He wants to tell him, he wants to tell him so badly it actually hurts him and he didn't even know he could ever feel this much pain, but he can't tell him. He can't ever. Cas would hate him.

* * * 

It was the same dream he always has. He'd been down there for so long, for so many years. He could take the pain. Alastair’s torture was nothing compared to what he inflicted on himself in his own mind before he made that deal. True, the physical pain was new, but he'd been hunting a long time, he knew a thing it two about pain. But after decades, it got harder. He kept trying to pretend it didn't, but finally, he realised he was too weak, he couldn't take it anymore. That's when Alastair let him off the rack.

He had told Sam about that first time. About how to save his own sorry skin he had agreed to torture some poor girl. How he had cut her open, watched her scream and bleed and beg, and Alastair had just watched, occasionally encouraging him, guiding his hands in their twisted work. But that wasn't the whole story. He had told Sam that he had turned into a monster under Alastair, and that was true, but he told him that he spent the rest of his time in Hell torturing new victims, because the horror with which Sam looked at him filled him with so much self-disgust, he knew it was better that he hadn’t told Sammy the truth.

The next day, when Alastair gave him the choice, he had again chosen the scalpel over the rack. But he had turned away from the fresh victim, the macabre gift presented to him, and instead had turned on himself. He knew he was too weak to take Alastair carving him up anymore, not after so many agonizing years, but he couldn't do it again. He couldn't cut another wretched soul just to save himself. So he had turned the blade inward, and before Alastair knew it Dean had started cutting himself, slicing through his flesh, tearing strips off, watching the blood course out of his veins and sizzle wherever it dripped on that infernal ground.

Through some twisted curse he never died, never passed out. There was no relief from this pain. He continued all day until he was little more than a butchered corpse. But still breathing. Still feeling. Still excruciatingly aware of every single wound on his excuse for a body. Alastair smacked his lips and actually clapped his hands with glee over the carnage that had been Dean Winchester. Then the day had ended, he was made whole, and it was over.

Except it wasn't.

Except the next day Alastair didn't even put someone new on the rack. He just beaned with anticipation, handed Dean a kit of new tools, and then sat back to watch.

Every day. For ten years.

So when he had come back, he didn't know what else to do. He felt like a fake for being back, for being with Sam and Bobby again, for feeling like he had gotten a second chance. He didn't deserve this, didn't deserve sunshine or family dinners at the bunker, or... or Cas. So he exorcised those feelings the only way he knew how.

* * * 

And here was Cas, staring at him, those blue eyes boring into his goddam soul, and he was arrogant enough to say "Really, it's nothing. I'm fine."

For a second he thought he had won. For one glorious second he thinks he might get away with it for one more night. But then Cas looks away. He takes a huge breath, and then through downcast eyes he whispers so softly Dean barely hears him. "I hear you cry out."

Dean freezes. Shit. He can't believe he's blown his own cover so badly. Son of a bitch. He considers making some crack about how every one does that during nightmares, but something about the way Castiel won't look at him anymore stops him. This is a man who will stare, who will just watch and wait until you feel you have to confess whatever you're trying not to say because it's easier than withstanding those eyes any longer. And here he was avoiding Dean's gaze.

"I... You say you deserve it more than she does."

Shit. Shit shit shit!

"What happened down there? Is this...is this why you try to hide your arms from me?"

Dean is frozen. He doesn't know whether to try and joke this off, or to bolt, to jump in the impala and never look back, or whether to collapse into those arms and stop pretending. Is that even an option? Would Cas ever touch him again?

"I know what you do when you're alone. I know you think none of us see through your sleeves and your facade, but I do."

He slowly, and oh so tenderly, wraps his fingers around Dean's arm and brings it towards his face. Dean is terrified, still seriously wondering how far away he could get in his baby with no wallet and in just a pair of boxers. And then Cas traces his index finger over Dean's wrist, and even in the dark Dean knows he's touching exactly where he never wanted him to. And then Cas brings Dean's hand up to his face and he kisses the scars, sweetly and protectively, the way you would kiss a small child on the forehead who's afraid of the monster under their bed.

And Dean can't take it any more. His body is wracked with sobs as he wrenches his arm away and tries to roll over, get out, just, escape.

But Cas won't let him. He holds him close and lets him fall apart in his arms, wrapping him up as if in his wings, protecting him from everything that could hurt him.

"I couldn't tell... Never wanted....Why are you so...?" He doesn't even know how to articulate these feelings. He can't find the right words to explain to Cas why he's wrong, why this isn't normal, why normal people wouldn’t be ok with this. How he can't believe this is the goddamn reference Cas finally understands. Why can't Cas see how broken he is?

When he finally catches his breath, he looks towards Cas. He can tell he's looking at him again, so he figures that's a good sign, but it doesn't mean he can bring himself to meet those eyes yet. But then he hears that low, incredible voice he fell in love with, like honey over gravel, and it commands his focus.

"You ridiculous man. I pulled you out of hell; I came whenever you needed me; I gave up heaven for you; did you really think I would let you fight your demons alone?"

Dean is so overwhelmed he forgets to breathe. He just sits there, his chest having lost all memory of how to rise and fall, his mind racing faster than he's ever driven, completely conflicting thoughts racing through his head. He's still so in shock he can't focus, still hasn’t breathed, is still considering bolting, when Cas calmly adds, with just the hint of a growl, "If you try to run from this Dean Winchester I will puncture your tires."

Dean actually gasps from shock and he finally remembers to breathe as he cracks up. And then he's laughing and suddenly he's falling apart, feeling just as vulnerable and fragile and broken as he felt under Alastair's blade. He crumples and he cries, finally letting out all that crap he’s been holding in for god knows how long. He’s pulling out all the worst parts of himself, and Cas isn’t running. He’s not even mad. He just envelops him, once more pulling him up from the depths, and proving to him that there is nothing, nothing he wouldn't do for him. And for the first time since coming back, Dean starts to think he might be able to stay.


	2. Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the hell? Cas didn’t leave. He is still here. He stayed. Dean keeps repeating this fact in his brain, phrasing it every way he can think of, hoping he’ll be able to process one version, be able to understand why Cas is still here. Making bacon. Cas doesn’t even like bacon. Why is he making bacon?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same as before, these are really serious problems, and if you find yourself having any inclination to any of these negative coping mechanisms please seek professional help immediately (or at least text a friend).
> 
> I hadn't planned on expanding on this, but The_pen_is_Dead kind of called me on bailing on the consequences, so here you go ;) I hope you guys like it!

Dean wakes the next morning feeling better than he has in a really long time. He feels safe, and rolls over smiling to face – an empty bed. His entire insides contract, he feels like he’s about to puke, like he might even black out.

Shit. He knew it. He knew that as soon as he found out Cas would be gone and that would be that. He had placated Dean last night, helped him fall back asleep, just so he could sneak off and leave without having to face this wreck of a man ever again. He thinks about texting Sam, just to have some company, but what could he possibly say? “Hey, I secretly have been with Castiel for a few months and we had a fight and he left me. Wanna come over and watch Star Wars?” But he feels so empty, like he’ll never be happy again, that he’s half-way considering actually sending this stupid text when he hears rustling in the other room. Fuck, does he really need to deal with a goddamn ghoulie right now? Thanks again, God, you’re a peach. He grabs his knife and slowly slips out of bed, inches towards the door, and peers around the corner, ready to attack. 

Instead he sees Cas making bacon.

“Good morning Dean.”

As if nothing happened last night. As if Dean isn’t standing there staring at him like Cas is the freaking Loch Ness monster.

“I tried to cook it like you like, but it you do not enjoy it please use your words to convey that opinion.”

Dean just keeps standing there, mouth slightly agape, wearing the face he usually reserves for figuring out exactly what type of bastard they’re dealing with on a hunt, with no idea what Cas is talking about. Without another word, Cas silently nods towards the knife in Dean’s hand. Suddenly Dean is acutely aware that he’s standing in the kitchen wearing only a pair of boxers and holding a knife.

“Oh. Oh! I, uh, I thought you were, like, a demon, or a robber or something.”

“I live here Dean.”

“I know that, ok? I just, after, nevermind. Bacon hey?”

“Would you care for some breakfast?”

“Yes. Hell yes! Just let me, uh,” he gestures at himself with the knife, awkwardly, as if he hasn’t known the feel of a blade in his hand since he was a kid, “I’ll be right back.”

What the hell? Cas didn’t leave. He is still here. He stayed. Dean keeps repeating this fact in his brain, phrasing it every way he can think of, hoping he’ll be able to process one version, be able to understand why Cas is still here. Making bacon. Cas doesn’t even like bacon. Why is he making bacon?

He gets dressed in his usual jeans and a Henley, sliding into a plaid button up as he re-enters the kitchen. Cas is wearing what he always wears, his stupid suit. He’s lightened up a bit lately, but not enough to wear goddamn jeans.

As Dean sits down he realizes there’s toast too, and eggs, and –

“Coffee?”

“Oh god yes.” Dean holds up his mug, and as Cas fills it and he wraps his fingers around Dean’s hand. He does so without looking at him, without making a big deal of it, just doing something intimate and familiar and *normal,* and in that second Dean suddenly understands.

Breakfast. Bacon. That touch. Cas is trying to tell him that he’s still his Cas. Nothing’s changed, he’s still here and they’re still like they were and Dean appreciates it so much he’s worried he’ll cry. He’s fairly certain that he would have yelled and fought back if Cas had tried to say something this morning, tried to console him with hollow words or trite platitudes, and he really didn’t want to do that. He knows Cas doesn’t deserve that, but it doesn’t mean he’s suddenly a feelings-sharing preteen or that he can control his temper. But Cas understands that about Dean. He knows him, knows him so well that sometimes it surprises Dean and he can’t begin to understand how Cas has figured this out so clearly, but he still can’t understand why you drink eggnog at Christmas.

Cas sits opposite him and drinks his coffee. He has tried breakfast, but it doesn’t mean the same to him that it does to Dean, so he just sips his coffee while sitting with Dean. The whole time Dean’s waiting for the blow to fall, for Cas to say the inevitable four words that will bring reality crashing back down: “we need to talk.” But he doesn’t. He just sits there, being with him in the most intense way ever, even though he’s just fucking sitting there. And despite his nervousness he actually enjoys himself.

Once Dean finishes he sighs contentedly, thinking that on any day this would be a great morning, other than the almost stabbing Cas part, but after last night, it’s freaking amazing. And he looks over at Cas and smiles. And Cas looks back at him, with a sad kind of smile, but then his face changes, and he’s looking at Dean differently. 

Uh oh, he thinks, here it comes. Oh God, I can’t do this. And he looks back at Cas, and gets ready to fight, but for once he doesn’t want to. He can’t put on his ass-kicking face, and he knows that instead he just looks hurt, and scared, and tired, because he is, he’s tired of lying and of dreading moments of honestly like this. Moments that make him vulnerable. And he thinks he sees Cas nod almost imperceptibly before returning to stare into his coffee, and just like that, the threat has passed. And Dean realizes that in that moment, Cas let him take charge. They do have to talk, obviously they do, but not right now. Cas knows him enough to realize that forcing this talk won’t lead anywhere, so he just warns Dean, warns him with that look, and tells him that they need to talk, but that he will wait until Dean is ready.

Normally that would be an awful lot to read into one look, Dean realizes, but then again, he knows that look really, really well. He saw that look every time he talked to Cas for years. When Cas held his gaze just a little too long. Back then he didn’t know this is what it meant, didn’t know how to translate that almost carved expression of Cas’ travertine face. He definitely had no idea what Cas was secretly saying with his eyes all along. He had started getting suspicious when they met Jimmy, actually. Like, when that body went back to being Jimmy’s and stopped being Cas’ for a little. Dean still isn’t sure how to talk about vessels properly. But Jimmy’s eyes didn’t look like that. Sure, they were a blue even Dean had to admit was incredible, but they weren’t Cas’ blue. That was his first clue, the first time he had even thought to question it. Slowly, after what seemed like forever, eventually he had figured it out. 

Cas was trying to say with his eyes what he couldn’t with his lips. The day Dean had realized that that other thing in Cas’ eyes, that intensity that took them from Dodger blue to that piercing shade of sun shining through a glacier, was love, he was so overwhelmed he just stared back. For much longer than he had ever made eye contact with another dude. But he didn’t care. He had finally seen that love, realized that the way Cas came whenever he asked, the way he defended him against threats he didn’t even understand, that was Cas showing him that he loved him. And soon Dean had noticed that same look in his own eyes. Cas had given Dean control. He knew how keenly Dean hated feeling pressured, or cornered, even then he understood better than Dean had ever given him credit for. So Cas waited. And he looked at Dean, saying to him “I love you. I will wait for you. If you ever decide to love me too, I will be right here. But if you don’t, I will still be here, but I will not make you choose. I will not force you to express something you may not want to discuss. But I love you.” Except he never said a word.

It had taken him so long to realize that he loved Cas too. It took him even longer to realize he always had, that even from the beginning, he had cared too much, been a little too pleased to see him whenever he alighted beside him, when Dean felt the air brush against his skin. When he finally knew he wanted to tell Cas, he knew that he wouldn’t need words. He knew that words couldn’t even do justice to the enormity of this thing that he felt. And so he followed Cas’ lead. And the next time Cas looked at him that way, Dean just stared back, and let his eyes convey the overwhelming vastness of his feelings for Cas. And he knew that Cas had understood, because when Cas saw the love in those verdant eyes, his expression had softened. He seemed to actually sigh, though Dean’s pretty sure he imagined that. And then suddenly they were rushing towards each other, not like some old-school romance flick, but like when you see someone you thought you had lost forever. And his heart was thumping and he thought he might knock Cas down he wanted to grab him so hard, hold his body close against his own, let him know that he never, ever wanted to let go again. But he had stopped himself, just shy of where they would have met, and when Cas looked up in surprise, he saw that same question in Dean’s eyes that he himself had been asking him for so long. And he realized Dean was checking with him, making sure he understood what was happening, and what it could mean. And Cas had stared back at him, and the corner of his mouth just barely went up, like he was trying to smile, but was too scared to fully commit to it, in case this didn’t have a happy ending. Dean had taken that final step then, had taken Cas in his arms and had assured him that this most definitely could have a happy ending.

But he had lied. And now here they were, playing pretend again, only this time acknowledging what is really going on is going to be so much less fun. And so they begin a new dance. A few times a day Castiel looks at Dean, the question there in his eyes. And each time Dean looks back, his expression begging Cas not to make him do this yet. And Cas never does. He moves on and asks about plans for dinner, or where the next hunt might take them, and except for those moments Dean could almost forget that Cas knows. But not quite.

* * *

It’s been five days. He’s only done it once since then. Only last night had he muttered something about a beer run and then jumped in the car and taken off. He hated himself for doing it, hated that he was pretty sure Cas would know, but he can’t help himself. It was the longest he had gone without it though, since coming back, so that’s something, right? But it’s been five days of lying to himself even worse than he did before Cas told him he knew. At least before, he could come up with an excuse and it would seem good enough, and that would be that. He could justify his behaviour so easily. But not now. Cas is so smart, hell, Dean never thought he would meet someone as smart as Sammy, but this angel sure does give him a run for his money, and between that and his piercing way of just staring into your soul, Dean knows he can’t lie to him. Not anymore. So when he tells himself the usual lies he knows Cas won’t believe them, and suddenly he can’t believe them either. Cas has given him the time to figure out how he wants to do this, and he isn’t going to repay him by doing it wrong. By lying. If he’s honest with himself, he’s tired of lying.

They’re on the couch together, Dean watching a Dr. Sexy rerun while Cas lies down with his head on Dean’s knees, reading a book that’s old as hell and in some godforsaken language, and it’s so obscure that at a glance he can’t even identify what unknown language it’s written in. But Cas has been devouring it for about a week so he decides not to tease him too badly, and has only called him a nerd twice.

He’s been staring at the top edge of the tv for the entire episode, and as the credits start rolling just out of his line of sight, he cautiously says “Cas?” like it’s the first time he’s ever tried saying the name.

“Mmhmm?” He replies half-heartedly, bracing himself to hear about the intricate details of some plot line from this insane television program he cares for only because it makes Dean smile.

“We can, um…I’m uh, ready to, uh…” Dean sighs, knowing he has to do this. “…to, y’know, talk. Or whatever.”

Dean can feel Cas’ body stiffen slightly against his legs, but he doesn’t show any signs of it outwardly, just slowly closes his book, sits up, and turns to face Dean, sitting back a little bit a little further, and Dean realizes that it’s so he doesn’t make him feel trapped. Even now, Cas understands, lets him set the terms of this interaction. 

“I know you’ve been trying to get me to talk all week, and I really…” Why is this so hard? He’s rubbing the back of his neck while he searches for the right words. “I mean, I, uh. Thanks Cas.” He doesn’t know why he tried saying anything else, all he had to do was say thanks, and Cas lights up inside. It doesn’t quite extend to his eyes, and he certainly doesn’t smile, but Dean can see that he was right, and that Cas is pleased that he has handled this properly. He’s so eager to please Dean, sometimes Dean can barely handle it. And somehow that’s what sets him off.

“Look man, I don’t know what to say, ok? You just spent all week dying to know what the hell is wrong with my brain, and being so good to me, and it doesn’t…I mean. How do you not understand how messed up I am? How can you get me so much, and still not see what’s right in front of you?”

“What is in front of me, Dean?”

“A fuck-up! Obviously! Just a screwed up guy who got a second chance he knows he didn’t deserve and is stuck here now, trying to feel alive.” He expects Castiel to get angry. To resent being accused so vehemently after just being thanked for his kindness. To at least be hurt that Dean seems to value what they have so little.

But he doesn’t. All Castiel does is blink, very slowly, and then look back at Dean with those eyes, and ask quite simply “Is that really how you see yourself?”

Dean’s a little taken aback, but he doesn’t want to lose momentum. “Of course it is! How else could a mirror possibly show me anything else? I mess stuff up, hell, I’m messing this up right now. Cas, I am pathologically incapable of being happy.”

Cas’ response is calm, his cadence regulated, perfectly controlled, and he just stares back at Dean. “I’m not going anywhere Dean. You can yell, you can scream at me, you can kick me out, you can even make fun of me, I have become accustomed to that. But I will not leave. I will not abandon you, not now and not ever, and I refuse to let you think that you can possibly push me away.”

Dean stands there, not even realizing he had lept up, his heart hammering in his chest, blood pumping through his head so loud he can’t believe Cas doesn’t hear it, his fists squeezed tight, nails digging into his palms, and his teeth fighting for space as he clenches his jaw ever harder, and then suddenly, he just stops. He lets go. He can’t get angry enough to make Cas give up. He apparently just won’t give up, and Dean doesn’t actually want him to. And suddenly Dean realizes he can stop being angry, he can stop being defensive, and he can just talk to Cas, who is sitting across from him trying to understand the man he finds more confusing that languages lost before man first left the trees.

“I….I’m sorry Cas. I’m so sorry. I just, I don’t know how to do this whole, talking thing. With, y’know. Feelings. It’s a bit too kumbaya for me.”

And before he can start really feeling like a piece of shit for treating Cas like this, he hears him say “I do not understand that reference.” And he gulps down a chuckle, and then a sob, and suddenly he feels just like he did five nights ago, scared, and exposed, and vulnerable. He sits down on the couch so that he’s sitting cross-legged, facing Cas, and he rests a hand on his knee, squeezes it reassuringly. 

“Ask me what you need to know.” He’s finally come to peace with this, and knows that if enduring this terrible conversation means that Cas will keep holding him at night, will wake him up with a kiss, or sometimes maybe even bacon, then it will be worth it. Cas is worth it. And his face softens so that Cas can see he really means it.

Castiel looks up with the sweetest, most desperate expression, and asks him with obvious fear in the question, “What motivates you to cause your own body harm?” It reminds Dean of when Sammy asked him if Santa was real. Kid must have been about six or seven, and had heard some older kids talking crap at school. He had wanted to know the truth, but he was worried he wouldn’t like it, and there was this hope in his face that Dean could somehow make the truth and the answer Sammy wanted be the same thing. That’s all he could see now in Cas’ face.

He takes a deep breath, trying to articulate something he himself barely understands. “I dunno. I mean, it’s not like I enter beauty pageants or anything, I have scars aplenty, it comes with the job. It’s not like I’m some immaculate fucking teenager.” He can feel the heat rising on his neck, can feel the anger threatening to return, trying to defend himself. But it’s Cas. It’s his Cas. He sighs. Takes another deep breath. “It’s just…it’s real. The pain reminds me that I’m not dreaming, it pulls me out of the fog I sometimes feel like I’m lost in. Reminds me I’m alive. Does this make any sense?”

Castiel considers the answer. He does not understand, not really, physical sensations are still so new to him, but he wants to. He wants to understand every bit of Dean, even the bits he’s ashamed of. Especially those bits. So he pauses, then offers “It’s a way of testing that you really came back?” 

And Dean just collapses, letting out a huge sigh because Cas is trying so damn hard, and maybe this won’t be as awful as he had feared. “Ya, almost.” But he realizes that isn’t really the whole answer. And he’s done playing games and taking advantage of loopholes, there’s just no more point, so he decides it’s all or nothing. If they’re going to do this thing, he’s going to do it right. 

“But also, shit, man. Sometimes I feel like you would be better off without me. You, Sammy, everyone. Sometimes I just think that I could crash my car, and it would be ok. But I don’t do that, so I do this. Cause it barely counts, not really. I mean, I take care of them, they’re not going to get infected or anything,” and he thinks that adding that last bit makes him seem more logical but as soon as he’s said it he realizes how much crazier it actually makes him sound.

Dean can’t read Cas’ mind, but he can see the pages turning behind his eyes, as if caught in a gale, and it’s almost like Cas is scanning everything he has ever read or seen for how to respond to this.

“But you love your car.”

Dean chortles. It feels good. Weird, but good. “I know. But sometimes, when I’m driving on the highway, I just, I became painfully aware of how easy it would be. How I could just, not have to worry anymore. Not have to live with it anymore.” When that feels too serious, he adds half-heartedly “Besides, Sam doesn’t deserve her, and you don’t need wheels anyway.”

He watches his angel process this. Sees how much it hurts him, and how hard he’s trying to hide it, so that he doesn’t hurt Dean back. And suddenly he wonders if that’s what he looks like, when Cas looks at him. Is it that obvious that he’s hurting, that he’s trying to conceal it? He always thought he was a pro, I mean, he’s convinced how many people with that fake-ass piece of tin he calls a badge? But Cas knew. What if he’s always known all of it? What if he’s never actually tricked him, but Cas respected him too much to let him know how much his performance has slipped at home. His thoughts are interrupted by Cas’ carefully deliberated response.

“It’s not the car I would miss.”

And that’s it. Dean feels his heart literally contract, like there’s a hand crushing it, telling him how selfish and terrible a person he is to do this to someone he loves. He realizes dimly that his mind just used the word he’s been terrified of using out loud, and he almost used it, but honestly, there’s enough crap going down right now without worrying about that stupid word too.

So instead he reaches out and grabs Cas’ hand, squeezes it, and they say a thousand things and not a single word.

* * *

He’s feeling better. The next few days are ok, and Dean starts to feel like maybe, just maybe, with a shit-ton of luck, they might make it through to the other side of this. 

But then he has the nightmare again. And he’s screaming and crying and convulsing and Cas has to literally climb on top of him to stop him from scratching himself apart in his sleep. He wakes up to Cas pining his arms down above his head and straddling his waist, saying his name over and over again while he tries to pull him back to the here and now. It’d be hot if it weren’t for the fact that he’s acutely aware of how fucked up it is.

Once he’s properly awake Cas returns to his side, putting his arm under Dean’s head so that he’s nestled near his armpit. And suddenly Dean wants to tell him. Even if it means the end. He just can’t keep pretending anymore, not with Cas. He doesn’t want to with Cas.

“It was the same dream,” he murmurs, curling up even closer to Cas. The blessing of lying like this is that he can feel Cas, can be wrapped up in his touch, without actually having to look him in the face, which is so damn hard it’s unfair.

Cas knows better than to interrupt. He has, in fact, being waiting to hear this for months now, much longer than Dean even realizes, but he is not going to rush it, he won’t pressure Dean. He can’t. He never has.

“It’s from when I was… When… Just before we met.” It’s the safest way he knows to put it. Just because he’s ready to tell Cas doesn’t mean he has any clue how to articulate it. 

“And I, I’m there, with. . . wait, do you know about this already?” Dean’s suddenly aware that Cas may have used his angel voodoo to spy on him while he was in hell, or peer into his brain after pulling him out, and he wonders if this is some mind-fuck, but then he remembers it’s Cas, who is literally the last person on earth (or really, off it, for that matter) who would ever do that to him.

“Your brother spoke to me once about your previous relationship with Alastair, but simply mentioned that you had met before. He and I have had dealings in the past, and I am aware that he can be….unpleasant. But Sam did not betray any confidences, please do not be angry with him.” Dean sighs with relief, the only thing worse than telling Cas about this would be if he had seen it already and been concealing that from him. But Cas carries on. “I am, however, aware of his specialty.” He lets that sit for a second before continuing. “He gave you a choice, didn’t he?”

Dean isn’t sure how this is possible, but he melts even further into Cas, becoming somehow smaller than he’s ever felt. He can barely answer, but he breathes out a barely audible “Yes.”

Cas sighs too. He has heard about this before, knows the cruel way in which Alastair’s mind is twisted. He hates confirming his suspicions, hates imagining what Dean had to endure under that demented monster. “How long did you last?”

“What?” Dean can’t believe Cas knows about this. That he’s known all along what he went through.

“How many years did you make it before you came off the rack?” Cas says it so matter-of-factly Dean doesn’t know whether he’s relieved or horrified. “I hear most people do not make it past a year.” He’s trying to be supportive for Dean but he’s not quite sure he’s doing this properly.

Dean doesn’t know what to do. He’s proud that he lasted so much longer, but he’s terrified of telling Cas what happened next. At the same time he’s so grateful he doesn’t need to actually tell Cas this first half; that he can just answer with a word or two and he’s off the hook.

“Thir—Thirty years.” He waits to hear Cas freak out, but all he does is breathe in sharply, and squeeze him so tight. It’s weird, because Dean knows he only needs to breathe in order to make his physical form speak, he doesn’t adjust his respiration like a normal person does. But he had almost gasped when he answered.

“Oh Dean.”

It shouldn’t have such an effect on him but it does, those two stupid words damn near destroy him. But he knows if he stops now he’ll never get it out.

“But after, I didn’t – I didn’t play by the rules.” He feels Cas shifting underneath him, rolling onto his side so that he can place his other arm around Dean’s chest, let him know it’s safe, that he is not leaving. He can feel Cas looking at the side of his face, but he knows that if he looks back he’ll falter and won’t be able to finish.

“I do not understand. He only lets you make one of two choices. What do you mean you did not play by the rules?”

“Well, ok, the first day, I….I….” He can’t even say it. Cas nuzzles against his neck and reassures him that he doesn’t have to. “But the next day, I, I didn’t. I, uh. I chose door #3.” He can feel the confusion in Cas’ stiff body. Knows he’ll have to go on. Can’t imagine actually doing it. Knows he somehow has to. 

“Dean,” and there’s an edge to his voice, something not usually there. “I’ve never done this to you, I have always wanted to respect your privacy, but I have an idea. I have the ability to see what is in your mind. If you, if this…If you would rather not have to put this into words, but still wish to share it with me, I could see it.”

Dean’s breath catches as he realizes he can avoid this. Can escape trying to tell Cas what a twisted monster he is. Maybe, just maybe, if Cas sees it as Dean remembers, he’ll finally understand why Dean knows he doesn’t deserve to have come back. So he shudders, and then he nods. He can feel Cas adjust slightly behind him, and then he’s seeing it, so vividly it’s like a goddamn cinemax in his head, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to shut out the sight of flesh, and sinew, and bone, and his blood sizzling into steam as it drips, always dripping. He tries in vain to ignore what Alastair’s face looks like when he discovers this whole new world of pain, of torture. A world that Dean introduced him to. And as he lies in his angel’s arms he’s terrified at how Cas will react when he learns that Dean has a mind more twisted and cruel than a demon’s.

And he’s trying so hard not to think about what it would feel like to have Cas pull back and leave the room that he barely feels the tingle on his neck. At first he doesn’t understand, but then he feels it again, and again, and Cas starts shaking against him, not making a single sound. Dean knows this, knows it far too well. It’s the sobbing of someone trying to expunge every wretched thing from their soul without letting anyone else know. And Dean reaches out and touches the hand wrapped around his chest, and suddenly he hears Cas whisper “Oh Dean!” And then Cas is squeezing him so tight he can barely breathe, but it’s the best feeling in the world. And he cries a bit too, but not nearly as hard as Cas, who holds on to him for dear life until the sobs finally stop wracking his body. They fall asleep in a tangled mess of limbs and sheets and tears.

* * *

It’s been nearly 48 hours since that night. True to form, they both basically pretend it didn’t happen, although occasionally he catches Cas looking at him with even more tenderness. At first he thought it was pity, and he hated it, but then he realized it was love. Just plain simple love, even more love than before, and as much as he wants to deny it, he knows he can’t scare Cas away. He knows the stubborn bastard is there to stay. And he can’t believe how happy that makes him.

It’s after dinner, and they’re just chatting on the sofa about absolutely nothing, when Cas suddenly changes his expression, and he looks, oh my god, is that what he looks like when he’s embarrassed? Dean doesn’t call him on it, but he looks at him inquisitively. Cas looks like he wants to cross a line they haven’t yet, and he has always left that to Dean, and he looks so incredibly uncomfortable. “Cas, what is it?”

“I, I have something for you.” He gets up suddenly and leaves the room.

“Uh, ok?” Dean suddenly feels like a dick. Is it Valentine’s? A birthday? Shit, an anniversary? What did he forget? But then he remembers that Cas is an angel who has survived millennia and probably wouldn’t freak out about, like, a 6 month anniversary. 

And then he’s back, and he’s holding a paper bag Dean knows for a fact used to contain a bottle of Black Label. “Uh, booze? Thanks Cas, you shouldn’t have?”

“No, you idiot. Wrapping baffles me, but I understand that suspense is the key factor. I assumed this would be a satisfactory facsimile.” What? Dean just chuckles to himself. Not only has he fallen for a dude, but he has fallen for the weirdest dude ever. He reaches into the bag and has to stifle a groan as he pulls out the contents.

“A dreamcatcher?”

“Yes” The excitement in Cas’ eyes give him pause. Why is Cas so into this damn thing? They’re just cheesy touristy things you get for someone back home who will complain if you don’t bring them something. 

“Cas. You got me, a dreamcatcher?” He’s trying, he really is, but he just doesn’t get it. He’s not a nine-year old kid afraid of the dark. But then he sees the genuine sense of pride and trepidation on Cas’ face, so he examines the thing more closely. And there is something weird about it, something…It’s real. It’s not some angsty teen summer-camp trinket. It’s real. He suddenly smells the outdoors, he smells his own damn coat, and he realizes it’s made of actual leather, from something that was alive. The outside circle is lumpy, as if it’s wrapped around a branch rather than a two-bit brass ring, and it’s wrapped in real leather - leather that smells strong and raw and real. And it’s not cotton string either. Something shinier, almost beige.

“It’s sinew.” Cas offers, seeing his confusion and trying to help. Dean can’t believe he didn’t recognize it, but then again, he’s never seen sinew out of context before. Or clean.

“The hell did you find sinew?” Dean mutters, turning it over in his hands.

“Some new age shop selling oils and herbs. The clerk sarcastically commented on my appearance, though I’m not sure I understand what she was implying. I believe it had to do with her average demographic.” Cas’ brows knit together in concentration as he tries yet again to decipher the encounter, while Dean processes this additional information.

“Wait, you, you bought the sinew? Not the dreamcatcher?”

Cas suddenly looks down, almost sheepishly. Then he looks Dean right in the eye and suddenly it’s perfectly clear. Cas made this. He made this for Dean. Dean can’t remember the last time anyone actually made him something. Cas had made him something real. It meant something real, and it was made of real things, things that had lived and breathed, and he was overwhelmed with the enormity of realizing that Cas had in fact completely understood what Dean had told him, about the persistent need to confirm he really was here, that he was…was real.

“I know it’s just a legend now, but I looked into them. They used to be powerful amulets. They used to really work Dean.” And he suddenly seems embarrassed. Dean tries to let him save face by returning to his examination of the dreamcatcher, when he notices beads in the centre. There’s something strange written on them, symbols he half recognizes, but can’t quite pl–

“It’s Enochian,” Castiel volunteers, still looking extremely uncomfortable. In response to Dean’s raised eyebrows he continues. “They were difficult to procure, but they are strong amulets.” He holds Dean’s gaze a second longer than any normal person would, then stares at the couch again, like he used to do for so many wasted years. Years they should have been together. Years…

“Enochian?” Dean asks, suddenly catching on.

Cas hesitates, but replies with a defeated “yes.” Suddenly Dean places the symbols. Realises that the book Cas has been reading, the dorky one, it’s new, and he hadn’t been reading it for a whole week. He only started reading it after they started talking about his…

“Cas, did you research me?” He almost wants to chuckle it seems so absurd. Only Cas would believe that there could be anything helpful about trying to fix emotions in a book.

“You and Sam have taught me that when one encounters a threat that must be vanquished one should consult the relevant extant lore.” Seriously, Dean can’t even believe he is with this big a nerd. “Yes, I researched you.” 

“Cas when did you even make—”

“It doesn’t matter, Dean.” Cas growls back, with a harshness that Dean has only previously seen during battle. He catches himself and instantly softens again. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter when I made it.” Dean has never seen Cas defensive, never seen him react so aggressively to a simple question. What’s the big deal, he’s just confused because Cas has kind of been taking this whole guardian angel deal literally the past week. Hell, the only time they’ve been apart is when someone’s using the bathroom, or when he… Oh. Oh! _Or when he went for a beer run._ Dean can see from Cas’ face that he witnessed Dean’s sudden comprehension. But neither one verbalizes it, they know they don’t have to. 

Cas continues. “The point is, it…it’s real. Like you are. Like what we have. We can put it in the window of our bedroom, and every night your nightmares will be trapped by the amulet’s power, and every morning the sun will burn them. This is not metaphorical,” he adds, as if he needs to clarify that he means actual fire, and hasn’t suddenly started speaking poetically. 

Dean chuckles “So, better than sparkly vampire fly-paper, ya?” And he doesn’t think he’s ever loved a face more than Cas’ right now, all confusion and concern and slight disorientation regarding the drastic change of topic. Dean can’t help but snuggle closer. 

“Hey. You said ‘our room’ just now.”

“I, suppose I did."

“So, you sticking ‘round?” How Dean manages to flirt so outrageously with somebody he’s been sleeping with for months is a mystery, but it’s who he is, and he is finally, after so long, starting to feel like his real self again. Cas smiles and glances down, in what Dean decides to take for a nod.

“Cas, thanks. I mean it. Thank you.” He looks down at the precious thing in his hands, love and understanding and support all manifested, all made tangible into something he can look at everyday and remember, and he doesn’t think he knows the words to express his gratitude. He stares up into that face, and he knows he’s not afraid anymore. “I love you.”

Cas damn near crumples from relief. He holds Dean close, his fingers protectively wrapping around his wrists, and he whispers back “I love you too.” And then they’re fine. Dean has no idea how, but he doesn’t want to jinx it by asking, by trying to figure it out. For once he honestly can’t think of anything more he wants out of life, and he just leans into Cas and he feels the amazingness of his life wash over him, wave after wave, and he thinks, just maybe, that this is what being happy feels like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am exceptionally grateful to my own partner, with whom I had a very similar conversation years ago (less Enochian though). He straight up refused to leave, despite my crazy, and the bastard's been loving me to bits for years. I still don't understand how he can handle it, but it is kind of magical, trust me.


	3. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sam smiles to himself, hoping he’s not too obviously pleased. He’s known for a few months now that Dean and Cas had finally figured things out, but neither of them has said anything, so he tries to respect them and pretend he doesn’t know. They sure as hell don’t make it easy on him though when they bicker like an old married couple."
> 
> In which Sam finally learns what's been happening.

He knocks on the door and waits a minute, hearing muffled yelling through the door.

“Cas! Door damnit!”

“Yes thank you Dean, I wasn’t aware that was what the knocking signified.”

Sam smiles to himself, hoping he’s not too obviously pleased. He’s known for a few months now that Dean and Cas had finally figured things out, but neither of them has said anything, so he tries to respect them and pretend he doesn’t know. They sure as hell don’t make it easy on him though when they bicker like an old married couple.

“Hello, Sam” Cas says, formal as ever, but smiling a weary smile that Sam instantly recognizes. He sees it on his own face so often, but it’s hilarious seeing it somewhere new. Usually it’s just him and Bobby, sometimes he’s seen it with Ellen too. It is the unmistakable expression of “putting up with Dean’s shit but loving the crap out him anyway,” and it’s incredibly adorable on Cas’ usually grave face. Seeing that expression reminds of him of the awful time when Dean wasn’t even giving them shit, when he had been numb and had built walls so thick Sam didn’t think he’d ever break through them.

Having Dean come back to life has made Sam happier than anything. Not having Dean come back from Hell, but having watched him return to himself lately, seen him return from the withdrawn, troubled man who masqueraded as his brother for months. It damn near killed him to see Dean so distant, so upset, and knowing that he couldn’t do anything to help, to fix it. It was even worse knowing that Dean didn’t want him to. He had tried to talk to him a few times, but after they talked about Alastair that once, Dean had steadfastly refused to talk to Sam about any of it ever again. There had been a brief period where Sam had even started to worry that things were going down a darker path than he dared admit, and he had been overwhelmed with fear. He had no idea how he was going to pull Dean out of that, and he couldn’t imagine trying to get through without him, not again. But that’s exactly when Dean started coming back to life, and Sam had never been happier to have been proven wrong, or even to be teased mercilessly by Dean as his attitude became increasingly carefree from then on. 

“Would you like a beer?” Cas’ polite rumble brought him back to reality, and after a quick nod he had to look away to stop them from seeing his grin. Dean was in the kitchen making food, and Cas was being the perfect host. Watching them play house was just too adorable for words, and Sam was convinced they’d bust him any minute.

Cas returns from the kitchen with a beer for Sam, and then sits down beside him, so they can face the kitchen where Dean’s still cooking. The three of them fall into conversation easily, and Sam is so content he can’t stop beaming. They’re a family. He’s not sure when that part happened, but he knows this is an undeniable truth, knows that, for better or for worse, the three of them are a family now and it’s amazing. 

Dinner is just as easy, and it’s wonderful. They don’t sit around a table or anything, it’s not like their the Cleavers now, but they sit there, eating together on couches, and they aren’t eating while driving across six states, or wolfing something down before getting back out to hunt, and the ease, the leisure of it all, it’s the most precious gift Sam’s ever received. Afterwards they’re all just hanging out and chatting and Dean starts teasing Sam about school.

“Cas, I ever tell you how big a goody-good Sammy was?” Cas lets himself lean forward, turn his body slightly to Dean to give him his full attention, and Sam thinks he sees their knees graze for a second. “He’d get an assignment in class, and come home and do it immediately. Didn’t watch half an hour of tv or grab a snack or anything. Biggest nerd ever.” The last bit he directs at Sam, hurling his eyes over to him in the condescending manner secretly taught to all big brothers the world over. Sam doesn’t care, he can see Dean grinning, knows how proud he is of him going to school, for doing well. So he just rolls his eyes and sighs.

“Whatever, you’re just jealous because I can pick up girls who are hot and smart.” Sam says it without thinking, just a normal line he would have thrown at Dean anytime, but suddenly he realizes he just said that to Dean while Cas is sitting beside him and that makes this weird for about 100 reasons, and the only redeeming thought is “maybe this will cement my fake-not-knowing?” but then he knows the look of regret and confusion that must have immediately appeared on his face probably took care of that for him too. 

But Dean doesn’t freak out, he’s Dean freaking Winchester, King of Cool. He takes a swig of beer, leans back, puts his hands behind his head, and calmly shoots back, “A: I could get any chick I wanted, B: I’m perfectly content drinking beer with you two losers, and C: Fat talk for a guy who still hasn’t read Vonnegut.”

Sam nearly chokes on his beer. That’s a lot of information to respond to, but he decides to stick to point C. If Dean’s going to just give him a get out of jail free card, he’s going to take it. “How do you know I haven’t-?” 

“Because you would be freaking talking my ear off about it as soon as you started, and you haven’t, so you obviously haven’t. Dude, there’s a copy of _Slaughter House Five_ in my room, just go grab it and read the damn thing.” Sam stands up, shaking his head slightly, unable to believe that despite that perfect opportunity, Dean still can’t bring himself to talk about this, that he wants to play pretend that badly.

As he walks into Dean’s room he instantly notices something is off, but it takes his mind a minute to articulate it, and by the time he’s grabbed the book, it’s starting to take shape in his head. There’s nothing visually out of place, but it doesn’t feel like Dean’s room. Well, not like any of the rooms he’s ever known Dean to occupy. There’s something… And then it clicks, and he understands. It’s _their_ room. Oh my god, they share a room? Dean was never with a chick more than a few weeks, and here he is with Cas, with Cas, and it’s been months, and they share a freaking room. Sam thinks his heart might explode he’s so happy. Maybe Dean is actually, finally, in love. Sam barely dares to think it, but the evidence completely surrounds him, it greets him everywhere he looks. He wants to hug Dean tight enough to let him know he’s knows, but he knows Dean would probably break his nose if he tried.

But as he’s sweeping his gaze across the room, he’s drawn to something in the window, something hanging near the bed. He steps closer and sees that it’s a dreamcatcher. A dreamcatcher. Dean. Dean has a dreamcatcher? This makes no sense. Dean hates things like this, hates anything touchy feely, and something that is supposed to fight off nightmares, like some magical guard dog? Dean wouldn’t in a million years buy that crap. 

Sam leans forward to look more closely at it, and that’s when he notices how crude it is, how that makes it so much lovelier than others he’s seen. It’s rough and the circle’s a little wonky and as he takes it in his hand to look at the beads he feels it. There’s a strange intensity from it, like a vibration coursing throughout his whole body. Confused and suspicious, he takes it down and starts to walk back to the living room.

Dean looks up, his face lit up from laughing with Cas, and Sam knows he was right, but that’s not what matters right now. That’s not what Dean needs to explain. “Sammy, what the hell man, I thought you’d…” Dean’s jibe trails off as he sees Sam’s stern expression, as he takes in what Sam’s holding. For a second he’s on instinct, and his body has already tensed, ready to leap up and get the hell out of this room. But he glances at Cas, and he’s looking at him with that same look, that look that says “I’m here for you, you need to tell him. He won’t leave either.” Dean sighs, realizing that it’s been weeks now; weeks since Cas gave him the dream catcher, weeks since he dreamt of hell, weeks since he felt the need to hurt himself. He feels better, feels safe, feels alive. It was time Sam knew.

"Sit down Sammy, and listen up, because we're only going to talk about this once."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely new internet friend The_pen_is_Dead posted a comment that brought up the most adorable scene in my brain, and I just really wanted to write it. Luckily I got permission to go nuts! Comment still below, and almost all these ideas were theirs, I just fleshed it out a bit.
> 
> A special thank you to The_pen_is_Dead for challenging me every step of this and pushing me to push myself. This was my first fic and I was just going to post a tiny blurb, but with their encouragement I expanded it to these three (granted small) chapters. Thanks for being awesome :)


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